


the spoils

by neuroglam



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-05-31 00:57:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15108419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neuroglam/pseuds/neuroglam
Summary: Chris gives it the best he's got with two shots of topical codeine in his knee.





	the spoils

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadow_lover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_lover/gifts).



> Thanks Prillalar and Squeeze for feedback on earlier drafts!

Chris stretches his arms above his head, shakes a little bit to warm up before stepping on the ice. He grins like he usually does, winks at Joseph. Takes a deep breath and lets it out through his teeth.

It’s just the practice rink, but it’s getting to him. He’s twenty-seven. This is it—his last Europeans. ( _The first in his entire blasted career without Victor_.) Without so many others: there’s no Georgi anymore, no Michele.

Nekola smiles at Chris and pats his back as he passes by. He’s stable and fluid on the ice, but he’s on his way out, too: never a serious threat, least of all now. There’s Lambiel’s kid, all of what, eighteen? A lot of potential but still rough around the edges—he tries a triple axel and lands it, which, for him, is an accomplishment. Lambiel glows and claps, so Chris claps, too, if a little quieter.

Right. Chris takes another breath, shakes himself out once again. Maybe he can. Maybe he stands a chance.

Then _he_ walks past, pays Chris zero mind as he steps on the ice and skates off. His hair is on top of his head, in a bun; he’s wearing some sparkly two-tone blue monstrosity, but that’s not what Chris looks at. None of that matters. He knows what to look for: the way Plisetsky’s thighs have filled out, the way his shoulders have broadened. The force that comes down his spine, through his heels, and drives his skates into the ice. The way he looks straight ahead, skating past Nekola, who’s staring, too. Triple toe, triple loop combination; light, sure-footed, landings nailed down, stable.

Chris has seen this before. He knows exactly what it means.

“Man, we don’t stand a chance, do we,” Nekola says, skating by. And it’s not exactly Victor Nikiforov—there’s fewer smiles, less pandering to the audience, more focus. But no. They don’t.

 

Chris gives it the best he's got with two shots of topical codeine in his knee. He's the only one who's got enough quads to rival Plisetsky's component score. But after the short, he is, predictably, second.

More exhausted than he ever used to feel, he sits with a blanket over his legs. Nekola and Lambiel’s kid giggle on his right. No one treats him any different and he’s grateful for that.

Plisetsky walks over, headphones already in. He fidgets with his phone as he settles under a blanket of his own. He leans back and fires off a couple of texts; sighs as he closes his eyes. He doesn’t say anything—doesn’t need anything said to him. No one here does—they're a select few, the handful of people that always end up next to each other with blankets over their legs. They know each other too well for small talk.

Again, Chris watches. Yuri’s jaw is squarer, his Adam’s apple more pronounced, the skin on his cheeks rougher where he no doubt already shaves. His chest rises and falls as he breathes. His lashes are almost transparent, but so ridiculously long, resting on his cheeks. Even slouching as he is, there’s a graceful line up through his spine and neck ( _bare—the ridiculous bun_ ).

“What?” Yuri must have felt Chris’ eyes; his own open slowly as he turns his head to the side.

“Nothing,” Chris says, and thinks, _even his voice has gone deeper._

But maybe it’s not nothing. Yuri shifts under the blanket; he’s grown so much, but his waist is still so thin. Chris will come second, like he always does. But this right here—the victor, with his strong thighs and bloody feet— _this_ has always been his spoils.

 

Chris walks up to his hotel room and wonders what sex with Yuri would be like. He vaguely pictures walking up to him after the free skate tomorrow, putting an arm around his shoulders the way he always did with Victor. Victor would lean slightly into it, into Chris. Would Yuri? Or would his shoulders tense before he gives in?

Chris touches his card to the reader and imagines them skin to skin. It wouldn’t be loud, or giggly, or fun, the way—yes, the way it used to be with Victor, at least the way it used to be in the beginning. But it wouldn’t be drunk and gloomy either, not the way it was by the end.

Chris sighs as the door to his room slams shut. He supposes he’ll always miss Victor. Deep down he thinks Victor smiles just a little too wide now, laughs a little too loud. In a couple of years, Chris thinks, Victor will be back, even though right now that’s neither here nor there.

When he’s back, Chris will have him. 

Chris will probably have Yuri, too, if the thoughts Chris is having lead where he hopes they would. He's been watching him, he can read the signs. He's been there—focus narrowed to a glowing square, pushing away at a tightness in the middle of his chest, compelled to keep checking for messages that always seem to come a little too late.

Chris plops himself on the bed and pictures Yuri in it. It’s a simple image. Unhurried. No coyness, lewdness, or bravado. Yuri’s legs tangled in Chris’; Yuri’s hair, messy and free from its bun, all over the pillow. He pictures kisses and a hand on his dick, sure, steady. He wants this. Wants _them_ , the way he thinks they will be. Unbuttons his trousers and thinks, after Yakov's grumpiness and Victor's drama, and whatever there's going on on Skype, Yuri might want them that way, too. 

 

In the end, they’re nothing like that. For one, it’s Yuri who gets up from the banquet table and follows Chris to the restrooms; puts his hand on Chris’ shoulders, their heads almost level now.

"You were looking." Yuri states like it entitles him to what he plans to take.

"I was," Chris says, because it's true.

Then Yuri growls and Chris is being slammed into the tiles; Yuri’s thigh, strong and muscular, wedges between Chris’. Chris is being _claimed_ , like the gold medal just an hour ago—being claimed as Yuri’s spoils.

Lips and teeth clash, Yuri bites. Too forceful, too insistent—

 _Silly kid_ , Chris thinks as he softens the kiss.  _T_ _his was always yours—_ as he puts a hand on Yuri’s ass ( _a skater’s ass, round and perfect, a delight_ ). As he tilts back his own head and lets Yuri lead.

“My room, after. Eleven-thirty-four,” Chris says. “Come get what you need.”  He stares into pale lashes; green eyes, pupils black and wide. Then at Yuri's mouth, red and kissed, glistening. That jaw, strong and sure. The jaw of an adult.

“No. Now.” A victor asking for what’s his.

“Okay. Now,” Chris says and falls to his aching knees.


End file.
